fragile mind
by Litorianfighter
Summary: what happens when a fragile mind is confronted with death?


The call for heroes was followed by many familiar faces.

Even those who had struggled with their past eventually came back.

It hadn't been easy for overwatch to establish itself once again but, even if there was still hate among the people, even if they still had to operate in the shadows not allowed to recruit new heroes to join the organization, there were new faces as well that had followed the call.

Mostly inspiring young faces that wanted to change the world.

But one was not like the other.

Of course they couldn't be picky when it comes to new recrudesce but this one still made the most of them feel uneasy. He was young sure, about 25 years old at least the health scan provided this information.

An ex junker from Australia, so heavily irradiated what had caused his hair to fall out leaving him with a patchy blond hairdo but it was nothing that you couldn't handle with some nanobiotics and proper care.

He was a double amputee nothing strange when someone came from the Outback from Australia.

The Prosthetic he wore were self made, the work of a someone who had a brilliant mind but limited resources. Foreign neurotransmitters and standard mechanical joints build out of not more than Junk.

Other then that he was surprisingly tall and slightly underweight but in sustainable condition.

How ever his health stats were the only thing concrete about him.

Not even a proper name decorated his files not to mention a full face.

As he came to apply for the organization he refused to discord his torn cloths, even if the mask he wore was basically useless what so ever.

Once it maybe was, clearly, but to date there was not much left of the gas mask once formed like a pig's snout. The left filter was torn away and were once was a lens to seal the construction there now was a gaping hole to present a view onto an amber eye. But he still refused to take it off under any circumstances.

The rest of his armor, if you even could call it so, consisted out of a harness which helt hand-made simple but very effective grenades, the half of a tire decorated with spikes strapped over his shoulders witch was attached to a yellow metal shoulder plate with a hydraulic tube connecting it with an other worn yellow plated covering the elbow which the orange prosthetic was attached onto. Both of the Plates seemed to be way to big for the muscular arm but somehow he had made them fit.

Other than that he was shirt less showing off numerous tattoos and scars. On in particular was interesting.

Right over his bellybutton was the cartoonish depiction of a pig stretched over his muscled belly, it was quite in contrast to the skull with crossed dynamite decorating his right arm or the simple words carelessly inked into his flesh most of them didn't even make sens. But it was not just out of place in a question of art style, the scan had stated that it once was an other humans skin that had held this piece of art and that it as just transplanted to the scrawny frame leaving a thick red scar behind. The previous owner had probably been a little bit larger because it seemed like the tattoo had once included way more then just the pig's face but the small frame just had had enough place for the part that had been used.

His bottoms just consisted out of patch up shorts, stitched together with countless patches and decorated with to many pins, most of them even double. The torn apart half of a license plate was used as belt buckle and a winch was attached to the back of the belt covering nearly the whole

buttocks of the man making it difficult for him to just sit down at any time he wanted, but he didn't seem to care.

He seemed to have a thing for over sized clothing, because even his shoes, well shoe, was to big for him, but he had stuffed it with fabric to make it fit, it still looked kind of ridiculous with its big horn nearly as high as the half of his shin.

The choice of weaponry he brought with him was just as outlandish as his clothing.

Attached to the winch on his backside was a gigantic hook, way to big to be considered useful at least for most of other people, but that scrawny man made it work, hauled in his enemies before executing them with a shotgun just as big as the hock which he mostly carried around strapped to his side. But that was not the last on his arsenal of course there were his grenades and some mines that he used, other saw him once use bear traps too but nobody could explain where they came from, so nobody was sure that those were really his, but what was sure, was that he had a powerful special weapon that he dragged around with himself on his back leaving him hunched over.

The motorized explosive tire was a force of destruction.

But he barely ever used it, and when he had to use it he would vanish into his room for days, even weeks after a mission.

At first he wouldn't communicate with the team besides the occasional pre and post mission meetings and even there he would just make grunts and other noises to show his approval or denial of something. It took time for the other so get to him.

One of the first who got him to talk was an other new recruit named Lúcio Correia dos Santos, a young brazilian dj and freedom fighter and part of the support team on filed.

He had shown the others a new track of his and the ex junker had expressed rather excitedly his liking for the music.

After that the man who had now called himself Junkhog started to get more talkative, searching conversation with nearly everyone.

He seemed to be a quite friendly companion, a little bit crazy for sure, but overall friendly, at occasion even tempestuous with a problem to sustain personal spaces.

However he still was no team player, showing suicidal tendency on battle ground, often just running head first into the line of enemies. Don't caring about aiming or strategies.

But he still got back with little to no injuries even without getting support from the healer on field.

Tracer once reported seeing him use some kind of substitute filter or gas container on his gas mask as he was injured to an extend where he would probably not even have survived an other blow.

But even up on asking he denied even owning something like that.

However something seemed to hold him back when he was about to run of in to a too dangerous situation or was about to blow the whole mission because of not compling with the plan.

Up on occasions teammates reported him discussing with himself, mostly just manifested in a small quiet muttering behind the mask, barely audible trough the torn fabric.

At first everyone thought it was just a side effect from the radiation poisoning.

Just a little mental issue that didn't need to be taken serious, But than there was the rather brutal argument that Winston had witnessed and reported to Dr. Ziegler.

It had occurred after an especial troubling mission which was nearly blown by the behavior of 'Junkhog'.

Apparently Winston had forgotten something in the trainings areal and had been wandering through the living quarters in the dead of the night as an unfamiliar voice had gotten his attention.

It came from the common room where surprisingly the light was still on.

Suspecting an intruder, the bulky gorilla had stalked his way to the entrance to get a peak on who ever was in there.

He had witnessed how the scrawny man had pined himself onto the wall with his right arm, while the left hand was paniced scratching at the metal to get it away from his throat.

With a choked but still dark and mighty voice he had boomed at himself.

"Rat, get yar shit together! For the last time, when you continue to run off in to the danger ya get yaselfe killed!", according to Winston the man had just laughed hysterically at himself a kicked into the air as if somebody wound stand right in front of him, before answering himself with his normals still choked voice:"What's ya problem, mate! If I end up dead ya finally will have ya peace!".

Apparently the man had released himself after that because Winston had heard how somebody had sucked in air and a quite but deep and still unfamiliar hum saying something about not wanting peace when it comes trough the stupidity of a kid. He had not waited till Junkhog had come out of the room and had hurried to get away from him because he was confused and overwhelmed with the situation.

Angela wasn't a psychiatrist, but such a behavior sounded like schizophrenia at best and could become worrying.

She decided that it would be the best to have an eye on that man before she would convened him for inquiry.

Of course she had not the time to follow every step of the ex junker but every bit of free time she would use to go through old mission reports, surveillance camera footage from missions or the time at the base and she would watch the man every time she had the chance to for example in the dinning hall or by shared free time activities.

At first he just seemed to be the normal, a little bit crazy an awkward, buffoon everyone thought he was, but hen there were those little things that seemed to be out of place.

Sometimes at dinner he sat with the others, other times he sat alone and barely said something. It first seemed like he just had mood swing but as she examined his meal plan, she discovered that every time he would sit alone, he just ate plain vegetables and fruit sometimes even fish but never something sweet or meat. Any other time he would preferred meat over verbals, never ate plain fruit and always got himself at least two portions of a sweet dessert.

He even had two different styles of running.

His usual hobbling and one he would use when he was using either his hook or his shotgun, well most of the times both at the same time, the other walk style of his was more like as if he would be a much larger man in weight. It was kind of cumbersome, even a little bit slower.

Fist she tried to blame it on the weapons and the shire size of both but than an other small detail got her convinced that it had to be something other.

His speak pattern or better to say his way of commenting the situation changed depending on his weapon choice.

Hauling around grenades and mines he often laugh at the explosions commenting how beautiful they were and even commenting on the actions of others but he would stay never quiet, using the hook and the shotgun he would laugh at splattered blood and intestines rather than near by explosions, he even seemed to be more focused and never spoke much not to mention commenting while using those, sometimes he would even tell himself to shut up when he was just about to change his weapons.

But when he was using his rip tire it was a hole different thing.

He would hesitate rather than just happily trying to cause mayhem, trying to soothe himself after launching it and he would flinch away from the explosion and then he would be completely quiet no matter which weapon set he would use.

Out of a pure scientific view Angela's interests into the mind of this man was now awoken.

Of course she was more of an invasive doctor, more versed about medication and surgical procedures but even if she couldn't garb a mind, surgical remove or correct what was wrong, there still was a brain that housed that mind and with some scanned she could get a better view

in to what exactly was going on in this man.

It took some tries to convince Junkhog to actually attempt their appointment.

He wasn't happy in the first place to be approached by her, told here that he didn't need medical care and if she ever wound think about getting him to choose other prognostics over his own, that he would burn the place.

Well she already knew from her first encounters with him that he was not really a fan of letting a doctor examine him not to mention patch him up or do other stuff with him, but with a little bit of the right arguments and under the threat to just drug him and drag him there he finally gave in and came.

Angela sat behind her desk looking through some files about the last missions damage and the used medical supplies as her door was kicked open.

A rather contrite looking Junkhog came in, grumbled something about someone being stupid, swung the chair in front of her desk around and sat himself down, without any further invitation.

"Oi! Ya wanted somethin' from me?", he asked not bothering with sounding polite.

"Ah, Yes, mr. … Junkhoge!", Angela started wondering how she should address the issue.

"Well, where should I start? Do u sometimes have blackouts?", she just asked without even trying to beat around the bush.

"Whot?", she saw how a wandering amber eye through the torn mask suddenly looked onto her and blinked a few times.

"Occasions, where you are aware you are awake but can't remember what you have done or what happened.", she explained softly.

"I know what a blackout is … just wonderin' why ya askin'!", he stated.

"Some of your team mate reported strange behavior that would implicate a personality disorder on your side ",Angela wasn't sure if that was the right way to approach it but well it was worth a try.

The scrawny man burst out in laughter:"So, those other drongors think I am crazy, hm?".

It was an honest glee full laughter not one of his hysterical once.

Just as he was about to give himself a smack on the thigh with his left hand, the right interfered and for a short moment he looked to his right as if there was somebody before locking his gaze back at her again.

"Roight, Roight, s' is nothin' new! So why'd ya bother?", he said surprisingly serious.

"Well, They, I, have notices that you tend to take time off after you have used one particular weapon in battle, Ms. Junkhog. We are worried about your well being, your behavior strongly suggests a post traumatic depression and such things can lead to other disorders and have to be taking serious.

We are here to help and care for you, I am here to care and help you! You don't have to suffer alone!", she offered in hope to get at least a little bit of will to cooperate out of her opponent.

But he just stared at her, silent.

His gaze had shifted before it was mildly hostile but sill with warmth but now the amber eye could have been ice blue and wouldn't have fit the cold that radiated from that stare, it was like watching a whole other person. She felt like prey being watched by a predator.

" Can I at least have your ...", she swallowed heavy, she was not easily intimidated but something about the state the man in front of her was in at the moment made her get goose bumps all over her body :"... real name ? Only …. so that I can find old medical records to complied mine?", she finished the question subdued.

She got a scornfully snort and a deep rumbling laughter.

"Ya don't need a name to care about somebody! Besides the name is useless, got eradicated from every record by the government!", his pose shifted slightly his left clutched to the remains of the license plate belt buckle and the right just … looked like it was holding a cup of tea.

"If you really care about him, you let the whole caring be! A mans promise is his own business!", his voice was calm, deep and in a way intimidating that Angela never had experienced before.

She felt silence unable to say something .

There was an unspoken threat in the air between them, and it didn't need any words to manifest.

The slender frame heaved himself up from the chair as if it would weigh over 200 pounds and then Junkhog just left the room and with him Angela released the breath she didn't know that she was holding.

Well that went great.

She shock her head wondering about what had just happened before realizing something.

He had said 'him' instead from 'me', that could mean something.

But as determent as she was to get her hands onto the case, she had no luck.

After the incident Junkhog got more reserved again.

Reports of him pleading with himself increased and his mood got worse.

He often stud around lonely and sulky for no reason while the other had fun or were just attempting their training.

Others trying to approach him were either ignored or he acted cold and repellent towards them.

Even new tattoos appeared on the skin of the man.

On read 'fifty-fifty' while the other were all in the line of something like 'not want to loose you', 'afraid of being lonely again' and 'false trust'.

Angela only assumed that this was his way of self harming.

There was simply no other chance that this was just for cosmetic purposes.

Nobody could get to him any more, even Lucio was repelled.

He got on his missions, played his parts, got his joy out of the mayhem he caused, it even seemed on occasions that he wanted to socialize again but something held him back.

It was however not like the invisible force that pulled him out of danger, it was more like he just tried very hard to hide something.

Sometimes, at least it seemed for Angela like the one side of Junkhog tried to encourage the other to go communicate again, but then he could just clutch to some of his clothing and run off to his room.

What ever he had been haunted by it had worked till she had interfered, scheiße.

What ever it had been now it had gotten company by a demon and it probably had her face on it.

Months got by and Angela still felt somewhat guilty, there was however still this scientific urge in here to explore the mind of that man but most of it was silenced remorse.

It was just five days til Christmas when things went horribly wrong.

There was no doubt that it should have been an easy mission.

Get into the building, get the information, destroy the main server, get out.

Mediocre security level, only two floor building, no basement aka easy get-out.

Nobody had thought that this would be a trap.

Everything about it had seemed to legit but still as the team was about to load the dates onto a portable network stick, things went from easy mission to complete disaster.

Suddenly Junkhog, Tracer and Symmetra had been surrounded by a massive Amount of Talon agents, the other half of the team consisting of , Lucio, McCree and Torbjörn were themselves confronted with a horde of enemies and before either of the groups could escape their teleporters and turrets were destroyed so that the only thing left was man on man combat.

It seemed to be hopeless as Junkhog attempted to blow their way free with his rip tire.

He couldn't had known that this explosion would start a chain reaction that eventually brought the whole building down.

One part of the team was buried by rubble while the other half thought their way back to the carriers to get more support.

There was no hope to find any of the others alive under tones of heavy debris, but they had to try it anyway. After nearly 7 hours of digging carefully through dirt the first one was found.

It was Symmetra.

Her head was smashed in by one big chunk of sealing, the rest of her body wasn't in any better condition.

The gruesome discovery let the mood drop and the hope fade away and with any minute that gone by without the discovery oft the other two missing members the little glimmer of hope to find them alive dwindled.

It took an other hour to finally find Trace, luckily still alive even if badly injured and unconscious.

Angela immediately took her into her care.

She had to attempt surgery to remove a broken rip that had punctured the right lung, nothing to drastic, but still an operation that needed her whole attention.

As she came out of the operation again, she had no clue how much time had passed.

Immediately she was approached by Ana, who informed her, that Junkhog had been found and needed her attention as well. Apparently he had been trapped beneath the rubble only some feet away from tracer and had been impaled by several steel bars. He was just barely alive and the first aide that Lucio and Ana had provided had kept him from dying but it was hardly enough to safe his life.

Angela rushed to the examination room they had brought him.

Bruise body overflown with blood, shattered prosthetics on his side , nothing new if you were a Doctor on the battle ground .

Professional as she was she quickly checked the vitals before she started to attempt the scan.

He was stable, vital signs low but stable.

However artificial respiration was needed and he still wore his mask.

The leather was now even more torn the snout was pressed in.

Only for a moment she hesitated, remembering the cold star from him all those month ago.

He would hate her, probably even wanted to kill her for this but it had to be done.

With slightly shaky hands she unbuckled the mask.

Normally she would just throw it away but this time she neatly set it aside.

The face that was now revealed look somehow strange.

The skin was nearly see through, and were the rim of the mask had laid on the skin most warts were raw and watery due to the constant friction of the mask.

The Face was long and as slender as the rest of the body lonely freckles disturbed the white skin on some places, one especially significant onto the long nose.

Bloody drool was running down the corner of his wide mouth, thin lips loosely parted exposing sharp teeth and to golden ones.

She had seen his mouth before mostly when he was eating or drinking, but to now see the whole face was uneasy up on her.

He looked like a child in a strange unique way.

Seeing him like this she would never expect him to be the brutal solider he is. His eyes were swollen and red as if had been crying a lot but it could be a result from an injury on his head as well . She should better check that twice.

Right she still had to do the artificial respiration.

Back to her professional state she shock every other temptation to overlook that manes face from her mind and got to work.

She jade to do quite some work to patch him up again, but it was nothing she couldn't accomplish.

As Junkrat was brought out of the operation room to one of the observation rooms.

Curiosity got her once again. She grabbed the ton apart piece of leather and turned it in her hands.

It was big, of course it was still damped from drool and blood on the inside and a putrid odor rose from the leather. She couldn't imagine how it has to be to run around having this smell the whole time directly in front of once nose.

Maybe she should clean it before giving it back.

But there was still some thing other about that mask.

On the inside was a little tag, on it were washed letters to be read.

'Property of Mako Rutledge'

The letters were neatly written down with a curving handwriting .

But the same person had apparently striped the name in rage and had written something other above it .

'ROADHOG', stood there, still in a curved handwriting but this time the lines were shaky and angry, not so much neatly placed but more scribbled with the porous to cover the old font, to erase the name that was written before it had bin streaked out .

Strange, Angela thought, that was not Junkhogs handwriting and Junkhog called himselfe Junkhog and not Roadhog.

So who was or had been this Roadhog

On Christmas eve tracer was already out of bed and could tempt the fest with her girlfriend at home, she had the instruction to not attempted any physical work for at least four months.

Junkhog however was still laying in his bed in the medical wing.

He was awake.

Amber eyes straight starring to the sealing.

Since he had awoke, he had neither spoken or done anything else instead of staring on one and the same spot.

He hadn't even eaten or drank.

Not even moving when getting an injection to sustain his metabolism.

It was early evening ans everybody had already gone to attempt the Christmas party with a big dinner that was currently taking place down in the dinner hall.

Lucio and had visited Junkhog this morning and had brought a small tree an a present from him but he hadn't even acknowledged them.

Now the only one left was Angela.

She sat beside his bed and checked his stats.

"Was mach ich nur mit dir?", she asked herself.

"Who ever that was you had your mask from, they must have been very important to you", she sighed while laying the mask on to the bed sheet.

She had intended to clean it but it just had felt wrong ans o it sill smelled like death but to her surprise the hand of the scrawny man immediately closed around the torn leather and held on to it.

"never thought i'll get it back", the voice was small and raspy barely audible, a deep sens of sadness swung in the tone of it.

"I would have been a monster, If I hadn't...", she attempted to finish the sentence but the soft tear filled gaze the man in the bed directed in her direction prevented her from doing so.

Both eyes were filled with emotions but those were not meant for her, she wasn't even sure if he could see her. His focus was somewhere far far behind her, even behind the wall, maybe even directed into a completely other time, but definitely not at her or the situation at this moment .

"I miss ya", he whispered starring in the distance.

"can't keep it fifty-fifty without yar mask",tears begun to flow down the hollow cheeks.

"Had never taken it off since that day, thought I've lost it, will never take it off again!",Angela felt uneasy listening to the man's mumbling but curiosity held her in her seat .

"Thought they would take ya from me, well more than ya already are... m afraid … like at that day...

can't forget.", more and more tears followed the firsts down to the pillow building a wet spot under the blond hair.

"Will do the same mistake again...", with those words he dug his fingers into the fabric of the mask, his face grimacing in somewhat horror and a sadness that Angela had never seen in anyone before.

"Every time I use that blood thin', I loos ya one more time, ya just stop beein' be me side, ya have promised, never leave me again, ya have promised …!", all just cried out in a pained sob.

"Why did ya stop talkin' to me, why did ya stop, why then, when now, why every bloody time, why, why, why ",like a chant he repeated that question over and over again til it was only just a whimper.

Then he was silent tears still streaming down his cheek mask clenched against his chest.

"Ya said we'll show the world what's like …. and then you just stop talking to me, as if ya didn't care anymore, ya had run away, didn't know were u were ...", ha heavy sob shock his frame and he began to shake with his tears .

"I din't want to …. didn't know ya were with them...", sobs now disturbed his mumbling braking the words in to incomprehensible pieces.

"I knew thy wanted me head …. I knew they had paid you to bring me to them ….. just why?

Ya said ya were sorry...i should have said that...but … but before I could...", his eyes were wide, his moments shaky as he guided the mask to his face nuzzling the snout.

Shivering lips trailed the stitched mouth of the mask while his eyes closed shot.

"I miss ya! … why ya had to leave me? … would have been happy with stayin' in this shit hole...as long...as ya wouldn't have left …..at least talk to me again...if I can't feel ya anymore ...at least talk to me again", he curled around the mask hiding his face in the torn leather, crying payed whimpers ans little sobs escaping his mouth.

Angela wanted to help so badly, but she felt powerless, for once not able to provide the proper care for something. She simply was no damn psychiatrist.

He sobs got violently again, shaking his frame. Snot, drool and tears mix themselves unto the sheets and the mask.

"... don't fell save without ya... don't trust nobody besides ya... don't love anybody other than ya …

Why did ya leave me? … I need ya!"

After that he was silent just sobbing into the mask while ignoring everything else.

From somewhere deep into the building a christmas song resounded making the scenario a little bit more morbid than it already was.

Angela got up with shaking knees.

Such a brake-down was much more easier when there was a fresh deceased involved and not one that was apparently dead for quite some time but still haunted the living through the weird coping mechanism of the human brain. She wasn't sure what had happened but it was something that haunted this man since quite a while. Letting him experience the death of the someone called Roadhog over and over again.

Carefully she tugged the sobbing man into his bed sheets properly again before leaving the room in a rush .

The phrase 'fifty-fifty' echoed through her mind and she had to think about the transplanted skin on his belly. Fifty-fifty, everything shared, even the body and the mind.

She shook her head a smile bitterly.

No toady she doesn't want to celebrate christmas any longer.

The next day she came back to a Junkhog wearing his mask again.

He was sleeping tightly curled up on the pillow.

The patient gown was gone and he only wore his underwear.

Immediately she spotted freshly sore skin on his lower waist.

It was a new tattoo.

Two stick figures, a pig and a mouse holding hands and beneath it were two names, the one she had read on the tag inside the mask and one she had never heard before.

'Jamison Fawkes'.

A lonely tear crept its way out of the corner of her eye.


End file.
